


Our Resolution Ain't So Sweet

by AshToSilver



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 12:21:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7103182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AshToSilver/pseuds/AshToSilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s seen this before, when the edges between enemy and ally begin to blur and Bruce is the stuck in the middle; fixing injuries but bringing new pain as he does it, being friend and foe all at once and being hated for both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Resolution Ain't So Sweet

**Author's Note:**

> **Anonymous requested:** _Batjokes prompt: batman takes care of joker after bad asylum treatment_
> 
> This is a part of my June daily prompts challenge - for the month of June, I will be accepting simple batjokes prompts from people and writing short stories from them. If you'd like me to write one of your prompts, you can comment below with any ideas you have. There's more info [here](http://alexfics.tumblr.com/post/145111053242/accepting-batjokes-prompts) if you want, and all prompts will be posted on AO3 under this series.

Here is a story, a half-forgotten play, a brutal chess match. Here is a tale, wound in tragedy and edged in comedy, as most good things are.

Here is the resolution, bleeding on the ground.

They know how to play this game; open on the dark stage of Gotham, shed in suspense, rise to the action in a glorious chase, the audience on the edge of their seats in terror, climax in a battle that could end all battles and looks just like last week.

The resolution looks like this.

Bruce lies - lies like its the only thing keeping his heart in its place and has since he was old enough to attend two funerals in one. He's been saying for years _it takes time to find a man like the Joker_ , he says _I don't know where he is_ , he explains _we won't be able to find him until he resurfaces_.

Here is the routine.

The Joker breaks forth from Arkham with fanfare and all the trimmings, and vanishes into the night for the world to hunt down like a fox. In a week or two, he will have gathered his forces and struck again, the finale striking like the clock at midnight and then he'll go back down again, borrowing into Arkham's insides like a parasite.

The reality looks a lot more like this;

It's the dark ends of April and the air is pleasant and warm, deep in the part of the year where the world begins to change. Bruce hears the burst of static sometime after eleven, a resigned voice that says _breakout from Arkham, the Joker is loose_.

There is a sing of _finally!_ in his blood, their last dance almost two months past and not much in between. There have been cases and training and a few, lesser fights with a few, lesser people, but. But. This is the moment he waits for, what all of this is for, what he lives and breathes for in early morning light when he can barely think about going home.

He waits, even though he can barely push past the tremor in his limbs, until his phone pings in the night air, alerting him that one of the safehouses has been accessed. He registers the address and sends out the message to the rest of his family _going dark, see you in the morning_ and _flies_ at a speed that most people never see.

The safehouse in question isn’t all that much - it’s a hidden basement, not far from Arkham, almost always used as a halfway meeting point once Joker breaks out. Bruce can’t even count the number of times they’ve met here, the clown not even an hour into freedom. Most of the time, Bruce can’t afford to take the whole night off on short notice, so it’ll be their quick hello, pickup of supplies, sometimes a quick dance that’s half-fight, half-love and then Bruce will go back out to finish the night while the Joker heads to a better safehouse to wait until morning.

But this time Bruce gets there and there’s blood on the floor.

A cold shiver goes down his spine. The Joker has been trained by _him_ , he leaves no evidence if that’s what it comes down to, and this is spread throughout most of the tiny dead-end hallway. A quick sweep with the blood analyzer shows a 100% match to the Joker’s file and so does the second and third sweep, just to be sure.

This is usually how their story _ends_ , not how it starts.

The hidden door isn’t as locked as it should be and there’s more blood in the tiny entrance way, where Bruce strips his armour as quickly as he can. There’s what appears to be a bathrobe with the Arkham logo on it, hanging up next to a faded and partially ripped violet jacket neither of them have gotten rid of.

The white cotton has almost gone entire maroon, though the fourth sweep reveals only a 50% match to Joker. Not all his then.

Bruce slides into the main room, a silent shadow across the wall. The room is as much a cluttered mess as it always has been, the lights out except for the bathroom and a lamp on the computer desk that shows the Joker isn’t hiding or lying in wait anywhere obvious.

There’s more sanity in the man then most think to look for, but it wouldn’t be the first time that Bruce has shown up to a clown that doesn’t remember their truce or who the man under the cowl _is_.

He follows the faint blood spots to the bathroom, where the door is half-closed to keep in the light. He gives himself a half-second to brace himself, in case whoever is on the other side doesn’t want to play nice, but there’s no need in the end.

The Joker is lying in the bathtub, forehead pressed against the rim and one arm dangling over onto the bloodstained tile. He cracks open one acid-green eye when Bruce comes in, but doesn’t otherwise move.

Bruce makes a distressed noise as he kneels, no words coming to mind that can take the edge off this, and presses one hand against a grey-tinged cheek. “What have you done now?”

“Hh-ha,” comes the answering wheeze, “ee-evenin’ ll-love.”

Bruce pries the Joker’s other hand away from his side, seeing a shallow, but large wound sluggishly bleeding. Nothing dangerous, a few stitches and some bandages would fix it just fine, though it’d probably put anything more serious than cuddling off the table for at least a week.

“How did you get this?” Bruce asks, stretching just far enough to grab the first aid kit on the counter, still trying to keep one hand on the Joker.

“Nn-new kids don’t ll-like me much,” the clown’s voice slurs, thick with drugs or pain, “gg-guards got a bit hh-handsy and you kn-now _mee_ …” his words trail off in a hiss as Bruce swipes across the wound with disinfectant.

“I’ll have them fired,” Bruce reassures with the casual tone of someone with a lot of power and no fears about using it.

“Ha.” Joker’s eyes open in hazy, bright pain as Bruce makes the first stitch. But if he means to say anything else, he doesn’t, just panting in short, quick gasps. Bruce can feel paperwhite skin quiver beneath his hands as he works as quickly as he can. His lover’s never been keen on painkillers, something about hating the feeling they gave him, but it’s clear this goes deeper than one wound.

He’s seen this before, when the edges between enemy and ally begin to blur and Bruce is the stuck in the middle; fixing injuries but bringing new pain as he does it, being friend and foe all at once and being hated for both. He’s seen the Joker fearing even his beloved bat, when memories begin to dull and the only thing the jester can remember is that hands bring hurt and he should do his best to escape.

“Sshh,” Bruce murmurs into green hair, “almost done, almost done, it’s almost over.”

The Joker wheezes, something like a laugh that isn’t born and closes his eyes again, leaning into Bruce like he can burrow deep enough to run from the rest of the world. Like he can burrow deep enough to wrap around a heart that’s been broken since Bruce was eight years old with blood under his nails.

The last stitch goes in easy and Bruce plants a faint kiss on a sweat-soaked forehead. “All done, my love, all done,” then, with crimson hands that are gentle all the same, “let’s get you cleaned up, I’m taking off your clothes now, alright?”

There’s a small laugh from the clown, but he doesn’t open his eyes and lets Bruce strip his blood-stained clothes and turn on the warm water, soaking a cloth and rubbing away the worst of the dirt and damage.

Bruce whispers things - kind things, the sort of things he knows nobody else will say to this man - and sure, sometimes the Joker doesn’t believe Bruce would say them either, but Bruce is trying all the same. Hoping that if he says them enough, Joker will remember them before they meet again.

“My love,” he says, something so warm and foreign inside his ribs, “my other, my prince,” presses kisses along a thin throat, against an almost elegant jawline, “my darling, my spark,” hisses against a white ear and emerald green hair, “tell me, give me names, I’ll burn them, I’ll take them down,” curls this slender body against himself, “let me protect you, let me take care of you, let me, let me in.”

“No,” whispers the Joker in return, but his head is leaned back and Bruce can see the smile and bliss on his face, see the jester, the clown, the joker behind the Joker. Contrary because he can be, because it won’t kill him here.

“Come to bed,” Bruce asks, orders, arms wrapped around the Joker’s chest and pulling him close.

“Why not,” Joker returns, opening his eyes again and twisting the arm on his good side around Bruce’s neck, leaning forward so they can meet in a bite that’s all lips and kindness, no teeth, “take me to bed, dd-darling.”

Bruce has known danger for more of his life then he hasn’t. He knows it’s stalking form around the edges of his world and forever does he watch it. But, but. Here is a bed, in a hidden basement, near the end of April. Here is a man, all broken edges and danger, but there’s light there too that Bruce breathes in like he can’t breathe without it.

“My heart,” Bruce whispers, curled in the dark around his clown, “my love, how I’ve missed you.”

“I,” the clown’s buried as deep as he can be, wound around his bat, “I’d do it again, I’d fight again, over and over - love, sweetheart - if. If.” He digs his claws into the tender bruises on the bat’s ribs, “Again, if I could end up back here. If-if I can be here, every time, I’d let them rip me a-apart. Just, just-” he sobs, the other side of a two-dimensional mask, “just don’t leave me, don’t leave, never, never-ever _ss-stop.”_

And what, really, can be said to that.


End file.
